


Five Stages of Grief

by thelostrocketeer



Series: Stages [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Gen, Grief, Idk whether anyone has done this before., recovery process
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 02:09:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelostrocketeer/pseuds/thelostrocketeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You drip silent tears into your teacup.<br/>You inhale, you exhale.</p><p>John's recovery process to fill the gap in between the roof scene and the grave scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Stages of Grief

**Day One**

_or_

**“No, it’s Not True”**

**  
**

You stand across the street from the hospital. You watch him on the rooftop- the way he stands on the ledge, the wind blowing slightly through his hair and his coat makes the hairs on your arm stand on end. You listen to his voice on the phone; it crackles slightly. You tell him you believe in him. You hear the words he says; hear him talk about how it was a lie. You hear it but your brain seems to be on a standstill, you don’t really _register_ any of it. You know he’s lying, anyway.

You tell him it’s not true, what he’s saying. He _chuckles._

_Goodbye, John._

You watch him fall. You see him fly towards the earth, gathering velocity. You run. Your brain registers something and you _run_. Suddenly you’re on the ground, someone’s knocked into you. You get up and your ears are ringing but still you run. You run and you yell and you feel your stomach disappear. Actually, you feel all your intestines vanish. Where did your heart go?

No. It can’t be.

The first thing you see is the blood, matting his hair, flowing over his skin, painting the pavement crimson. You see his pale-pale eyes; staring into the sky, unseeing, glazed over.

_Let me through. Let me through, I’m a doctor. He’s my friend. Let me through. Christ, no._

You reach out, stretching your arm through the crowd. You hold his wrist, it’s still warm. You place your finger where his pulse should be with army precision. You blink in disbelief.

Oh, God, no.

No. He’s not dead. He can’t be. He didn’t throw himself off the roof. You didn’t not feel a pulse. No.

You collapse in the arms of a stranger. She holds you so you don’t hit the ground, and you wonder if you do it will bring you to where he is now.

_Jesus, no._

You watch them wheel gurney over and lift him on to it. You see his limp hand, the blood dripping off it. You look at your jeans; you bring your hands to eye level. They’re covered in blood. His blood, that’s been thinned by the rain that’s started to pour.

_God, no._

He’s not dead, he’s Sherlock Holmes. Immortal Genius.

There’s no way on Earth he could be dead.

No.

 

x

 

**Days Twenty-five to Forty-nine**

_or_

**“Why, God?”**

**  
**

Anger isn’t an emotion you often indulge in. Barely ever, in actual fact.

No, you’re a calm man. You rationalise, you think twice. You almost never act out of impulse. You don’t react. You blink twice and breathe deep. You aim first and then you shoot, never the other way around.

You’re almost always the soothing cold milk, not the angry burning curry. You’re the white dust in the blue fire extinguishers, not the hot flames that destroy.

But then you fling the skull at the wall. It breaks into a few pieces with a satisfying _CRACK_.

Good God, that felt good. So you pick up his books. You throw them at the ceiling, revel in the flakes of plaster that rain into your dishwater hair. Yes. Oh, God. You ransack his drawers, you overturn the coffee table, throw random knick-knacks at the window. You pull out the knife he stuck into them mantelpiece and you stick his bedroom door instead. A few times. You punch the neon yellow smiley face on the wall.

You holler at Mrs Hudson _to fucking leave me alone!_ when she pops her head in and gasps at the mess. You kick the fireplace. You pick up the newspapers and yell at the pages bearing pictures of his ethereal face. She tells you to _stop it! Stop it! Please. John. Please._ with tears in her eyes.

Fuck it all, the bastard deserves to be yelled at.

She calls Lestrade. He tackles you and cuffs you till you calm down. Or pretend to, at least.

So you visit the grave. His grave, and you yell at the black tombstone.

_Screw you, you giant sociopathic dick! You left me! I hope you’re happy now. You threw yourself off a motherfucking rooftop, and now you’ve left me-_

All alone. Again.

Why?

God, why me?

x

 

**Days Sixty to Ninety-three**

_or_

**“I’ll do Anything.”**

**  
**

You make bargains with yourself, with God. With Brahma, Buddha, Allah.

I’ll be better. I’ll work harder. I’ll never lie. I’ll give up beef. I’ll build churches. I’ll volunteer with UNICEF. I’ll bury my gun in the patch of dirt behind Mrs Hudson’s flat; never kill again, righteously or not. I’ll be better. I’ll be bloody wonderful.

Just.

Please, Zeus, Mbombo, Vishnu, Oh Great Creator in the Sky.

Please just bring him back.

_Please._

 

x

 

**Days One Hundred and Twenty-six to Two Hundred and Ninety**

_or_

**“Man to Hermit.”**

**  
**

You no longer leave the flat. You spend your days face down on the leather couch; his blue dressing gown your shock blanket. It still smells of his expensive aftershave. You find a fragment from the skull you broke wedged between the upper cushion and the back of the seat. You weep, the sorry tears of a man who’s lost it all.

Mrs Hudson (bless her soul) starts checking up on you every few hours. _Want a spot of tea, love?_

_I made crumpets and shortbread._

_Want to watch some X-Factor with me?_

She tuts and pretends nothing’s wrong, and you don’t say anything when she takes away the razors from the medicine cupboard, migrates the kitchen knives to her own flat. You don’t say anything at all.

Lestrade visits when Mrs Hudson cannot. He sits with you. Or rather, he sits next to you, on the brown lounge chair. You don’t talk. He doesn’t talk. The stony silence resonates throughout 221B Baker Street. You count the threads on the Union Jack cushion. He counts the cracks you made in the plaster ceiling with the book throwing.

Mycroft installs a security camera and you pretend you don’t notice theglimmer when it moves, watching you. Making sure you don’t do anything… drastic. He sends you money. You tear up the cheques. He sends you texts. You throw your phone. He sends you a phone. You leave it in the box it came in.

You lie there, hours on end. Hours turn into days, days into months.

Molly comes by, only once. You finally speak.

_He’s really gone, isn’t he?_

She nods a small nod, her face worn with sadness, tiredness, fear.

You don’t notice that last emotion, though.

You just drip silent tears into the teacup.

 

x

 

**Day Three Hundred and Seventy-eight to Four Hundred and Thirty-seven**

_or_

**“He’s gone.”**

Start small, everyone says.  Learn to walk again before you run. You move out of 221B Baker Street. Harry sends you books on coping. Your psychiatrist has your sessions in your new flat. You utter your first words to Lestrade in over a year, and his jaw nearly hits the floor. You almost laugh at a joke. You start posting on your blog again. Mrs Hudson stops visiting every day. Everyone is supportive. Everyone seems to care. Maybe they know something even you haven’t realised.

So you open your eyes. You inhale. You exhale. You get out of bed, you shower, you shave, you dress. You walk down the stairs. You open the front door. You inhale. You exhale. You step out into the slight breeze. You almost get hit with a wave of panic; the wind was blowing exactly like this on that day. You take another breath. You steady yourself. You smile at a passing mother and her bouncing child.

You meet with Mrs Hudson at the grave. You stand next to her, looking at the black headstone. She rambles a bit. She leaves you alone.

You inhale. You exhale.

_You told me once that you weren’t a hero._

You inhale. You exhale.

_There were times I didn’t even think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were the best man, the most human…human being that I’ve ever known, and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, so there._

You inhale. You exhale.

_I was so alone, and I owe you so much. But, please, there’s just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me._

You inhale. You exhale.

_Don’t be…dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this.”_

But inside, you know he’s gone.

But you’re not.

And perhaps you’ll be okay.

Not now.

But some day.

**Author's Note:**

> Time line is taken from the canon, where Sherlock returns in three years.
> 
> Also: This series will be canon compliant till the last bit, which means Mary Morstan. Please don't hate me.


End file.
